


Glencaster Lodge

by puddlejumper99



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Fluff, M/M, Renee is Big Gay, Slow-ish burn, andrew is grumpy santa, neil is basically married to matt and dan, the "not a retirement home" au, twinyard reconciliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2019-10-18 04:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17573861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puddlejumper99/pseuds/puddlejumper99
Summary: Sometimes happily ever after is a long time coming.The one where Andrew and Neil didn't meet in college. Now, in their sixties, they discover it's never too late for true love.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> another self-indulgent AU from yours truly. 80% fluff, 20% me just needing to get this ridiculous idea out of my head. 
> 
> in which Andrew and Roland bought Eden's Twilight together thirty years ago, and Neil moved in with Matt and Dan when he retired from Exy. 
> 
> Grumpy Old Man meets Scathing Old Man and romance ensues.

Andrew stumped his way through the new apartment, swearing as he went. It smelled like cabbages. It was a brand-new apartment, and it still smelled like fucking cabbages. The paisley wall-paper matched the hideous flowery curtains, which he promptly tore down and bundled into a corner.

His fingers were crabbed and bent as he swiped through his contact list and called Roland. The big screen in the centre of the living room wall lit up with the bright, friendly image of a ringing phone.

The screen pinged and Roland’s face appeared, sitting in an airport waiting lounge. His short hair was speckled with grey, a bad sunburn peeling the skin on his cheeks. Andrew didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Andrew said.

“What have I done this time?” Roland said, already grinning.

Andrew cursed at him. Roland rolled his eyes. “You’ve put me in a fucking home.”

“It’s not a retirement home, Christ, Andrew. You asked me to find you a place, and I did.”

“Really? There’s a help button in the fucking shower, Roland. It’s a fucking home.”

“You poor thing.”

“No one is ever going to find your body,” Andrew snapped.

“It’s funny, you’ve said that before. And yet here I am.”

“Fuck you.”

“Love you too, babe.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Roland snickered. “I gotta go line up for my flight. Be good, don’t scare the nurses.”

“I hope you get fucking syphilis.”

“Mean. Later, grandpa.”

“You’re older than me,” Andrew reminded him.

“Says the man living in an old folks’ home to the man moving to New York to be with his sexy new boyfriend.”

“Your sexy new boyfriend is in his seventies.”

“Hm. And still a fox. A handsome, _rich_ silver fox."

“Go to hell.”

Roland laughed and wiggled his fingers goodbye. The screen cut out and Andrew scowled, kicking the couch sourly before dropping into it and waving a hand to bring up the video directory. The movie selection was decent, he allowed. Not good enough to forgive Roland for, but acceptable.

He sighed, sinking into the couch and rubbing a hand over his face. His short beard scratched at his hand. It was dried out from the hectic process of moving; he would have to oil it tonight.

He put on a mindless action film and sank deep into the couch. He could unpack later.

* * *

“Do you like it?” Matt asked anxiously.

Neil looked around the small apartment with a shrug. “It’s fine.”

“I thought we agreed you would stop saying that!”

Neil rolled his eyes. “It’s not the worst place I’ve ever lived.”

“You would say that about a roach-infested underpass,” Dan said, coming up behind him. “It’s not reassuring.”

Neil made a face at her and crouched, opening King’s carrier. The little calico growled unhappily, tucking herself into the back of the crate. “That’s okay, highness,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready. The litterbox is in the closet.”

When he stood, Matt and Dan were still looking at him with concerned expressions. He smiled, studying their familiar faces. Matt’s hair had gone almost entirely white a decade ago, his face lined from years of laughter. Dan still dyed her hair to keep it solidly black, her one concession to vanity.

“Honestly, guys. It’s going to be fine.”

“It’s not too late to come with us,” Matt said. “We could book another ticket, I’m sure the resort won’t mind—”

“ _Matt_. It’s fine. I’ve travelled enough. You guys go enjoy your anniversary.”

Matt dropped onto the couch, his face crinkling with unhappiness. “It’s just so weird to think of you not being around.”

“I’ll come visit during the summer,” Neil said patiently. “And I can’t leave King behind.”

“The winter, you mean,” Dan said. “It’s reverse seasons.”

“It’s so _wrong_ ,” Matt whined. “I don’t know what we’re going to do without you.”

“Probably have lots of sex on the beach and drink margheritas and watch your dumb trash reality shows. You’ll figure something out.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad,” Dan said, rubbing her hand over Matt’s hair. “We’ll call you every week.”

“Every _day_ ,” Matt corrected.

“You’re ridiculous,” Neil said fondly, sitting next to Matt. He immediately draped an arm around Neil’s shoulders, hugging him in against his side. Dan slipped in on Neil’s other side, sandwiching him between their warm bodies.

Neil sighed, resting his cheek against Dan’s shoulder. “I’m going to miss you guys,” he admitted quietly.

“I should hope so,” Matt said, affronted.

Dan tucked Neil’s head under her chin, wrapping both arms around him. “We love you.”

Neil hummed in affirmation, snuggling in comfortably between his two best friends.

“Do you want help unpacking?” Matt asked.

“Maybe later.”

“Okay,” Matt said, and gave him another squeeze. Neil closed his eyes, savouring their closeness. It was just a year. They’d come back to him soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which andrew runs into his old celebrity crush. also, it's valentines day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternatively: in which neil is a bit of a jerk, and andrew is _totally_ into it.

Andrew walked out of his apartment and into a cloud of hearts and roses.

His eyes cast over the cheap Valentine’s decorations, lips curling disdainfully. Fucking holidays. Fucking apartment. _Fucking_ Roland.

He stomped down the hallway, grabbing the end of one tinsel strand of pink hearts and tearing it down. It peeled off the wall with a shimmery crackle, glitter showering the carpet. The glitter clung to his hand as he stabbed the elevator button.

The light blinked on, cheerfully flicking upwards through the floors. Andrew tapped on his phone rapidly and it rang twice before the elevator door opened. He stepped in and a second later Renee’s face filled the screen.

“Get me the fuck out of here,” he said.

“How very romantic,” she said dryly. “Had it occurred to you that I might have Valentine’s Day plans of my own?”

Andrew glared at her for a long moment. She met his gaze easily, her eyebrow slightly cocked in amusement.

“Well?” he said gruffly. “Do you?”

She laughed. “As it happens, not particularly. I’m running a singles class at the dojo if you want to join.”

While the idea of beating the crap out of a punching bag sounded great right now, he didn’t need to run himself to the ground with a bunch of other sorry people today. Renee’s classes were always brutal, and Andrew wasn’t supposed to let his heart rate get too high these days. “Not interested.”

“Hm. I should be done by eleven. They’re serving two-for-one cakes at Beans & Bakes.”

“Fine.”

“See you soon,” Renee said, smiling, and hung up. She knew better than to expect a more enthusiastic response.

The elevator dinged and Andrew shoved his phone into his pocket, trudging into the lobby like he was entering a war zone.

It couldn’t have looked any more the opposite. Flowers bedecked every available surface, and tacky hearts with shimmering words hung in strings from the ceiling. The words shifted as the hearts spun, at one moment _sweetheart_ then _my love_ and other gag-worthy phrases.

To the right, the restaurant and lounge had been transformed into a commune. Tables had been shoved together, and small pink and white balloons formed arches over them as the diners—primarily residents—laughed and exchanged bits of paper across the tables. The nurses must have organized a _bonding activity_.

“Good morning!” The hostess chirped.

Andrew glared at her. Her smile didn’t wane; if anything, she brightened, glowing like the fucking sun. “We’ve still got space available at table nine, if you’d like to squeeze in before they get going.”

“I’d rather eat glass,” Andrew said flatly.

She blinked, taken aback, and Andrew didn’t waste a second stumping past her up to the bar.

The woman behind the bar took one look at Andrew’s expression and gave him a commiserating nod, pouring him a glass of water and pushing it across the oak surface.

“I’m not supposed to serve alcohol before eleven,” she said. “But I could maybe spill something in the coffee, if you’re in need of a pick-me-up.”

Andrew’s fingers tapped against the glass in agitation. Just one drink really couldn’t hurt, after all this time—

“Can’t,” he said, cutting his thoughts off. He held his hand up, spreading his fingers. “Five years sober.”

“Good on you,” she said. “Sorry for tempting. Anything I can get you, then?”

“Bacon.”

“On it. Anything with the bacon?”

“So long as it’s drenched in syrup, I don’t care. And a regular coffee.”

She tapped the register in front of her and it made a small _bloop_ as his order was sent to the kitchen. “Do you want me to charge it to a room?”

“326.”

“Alright. Should be ready in a few. I’ll grab the coffee.”

Andrew drummed his fingers against the bar, turning to survey the room. Glencaster might not officially be a nursing home, but it kept a robust staff, and even a casual glance revealed that the average age of the residents was easily over seventy. A nursing home in denial. Or maybe a nursing home for seniors in denial.

Two seats down, an elderly lady was leaning in to interrogate a man who looked faintly irritated. His polo shirt was a little rumpled, like it’d been shoved in a drawer without folding or ironing. The woman, on the other hand, was coifed to the extreme, her white hair fluffed into ringlets around a painted face.

“Now, what’s a man like you doing sitting all alone on a day like today?” she was asking.

“Having breakfast, hopefully,” the man said, folding his arms on the bar and regarding her with disinterest. Andrew took his coffee from the bartender, watching the woman lean a little closer, oblivious to the man’s body language.

“Oh, come now, don’t be coy. You must have something special lined up later, at least.”

“Are you trying to suggest something? Because if so, no thanks.”

Andrew choked on his coffee as the woman startled, taken aback. Andrew’s eyes flickered across the distinctive marks on the man’s face. Three parallel lines sank into the soft skin on his left cheek, while a discoloured pink circle marred his right. Andrew frowned, a niggling recognition tugging at his awareness.

“You’re Neil Josten,” he said. “The Exy player.”

The man jumped, twisting on his stool to look at Andrew. He touched the soft gouge marks on his cheeks, lips curling, a little wry. “What gave it away?”

Andrew huffed and propped his elbows up on the bar, burying his face in his coffee. “You always were an asshole on TV, too.”

Neil Josten laughed and the woman rallied, smiling past him at Andrew. Oh goodie.

“How about you?” she asked. “Dinner with a special lady, perhaps?”

“I’m gay.”

The woman flushed. Neil’s lip quirked at her discomfort, a little meanly, and Andrew was forcibly reminded of seeing thirty-year-old Neil Josten on television and thinking that he was _just_ his type.

The woman tried to recover, pulling up a false smile. “You know, I’ve always thought that it was admirable how supportive and open Glencaster is to those of, ah, differing lifestyles.”

“I don’t need or want your support,” Andrew said, biting.

“Of course, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care.”

Whatever the woman might have said was cut off as the bartender dropped a plate of pancakes and bacon onto the bar in front of Andrew. He tucked in, digging his knife into the pancakes with maybe more force than was strictly necessary.

“So you played Exy?” he heard the woman say.

Neil sighed in poorly hidden irritation. “Yes. It’s how I met my partners, actually.”

“Oh. Partners. I see—”

“They’re away in Australia at the moment. We’ll probably have a group call later, but their time zone is a few hours behind so they’re still asleep at the moment.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said. “Um. Well, it was lovely to meet you, I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Like an inconvenient rash,” Neil agreed. 

The woman twittered a few more pleasantries before fleeing the scene, defeated. Neil settled at the bar, rolling his eyes at Andrew.

“Well, I guess that answers the big question,” Andrew said, taking a long pull of his coffee. “The gossip rags were always going on about Exy’s most eligible bachelor.”

Neil’s expression twitched distastefully. “The leeches never could just focus on Exy.”

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type, honestly,” Andrew said.

“I’m not,” Neil said. “I’m asexual.”

Andrew tilted his head in surprise. 

“Life partners,” Neil clarified. “Not romantic partners.”

“Not what fussy pants over there thought.”

“Her fault she assumed,” Neil said, shooting him a sideways smirk, a glimmer in his eyes that said he knew _exactly_ what he had been doing.

Andrew’s fingers tightened a little on his mug, involuntarily.

Scratch that. Neil Josten _now_ was just his type.

Brilliant.

* * *

Andrew leaned against the wall of Renee’s dojo, watching as her students bowed and filed off towards the changerooms. Renee stood at the head of the room for a long moment, eyes closed and breathing slow and deep. Her expression was serene and dignified, the light filtering in the windows sparkling off her steel-grey hair.

She opened her eyes, smiling over at Andrew. “How was your morning?” she asked, stepping off of the dojo floor in her bare feet.

Andrew glared at her for a moment, then flipped his phone out, tilting it so she could see a photo of the infernal pink hell of Glencaster’s dining hall. She glanced down at the picture and covered a smile with her hand. “I’ll admit perhaps they overdid that.”

“That’s the understatement of the year,” Andrew said, dropping his phone back into his pocket.

“You should have joined the class,” Renee said. “I could have used you for demonstrations.”

“If by ‘demonstrations’ you mean throwing me on my ass for the amusement of children, then I’m fine.”

Renee laughed. “I’m going to go change. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Andrew hummed and she slipped into the hall. He let his gaze drift over the brightly lit room, cataloguing the familiar space. There was the sparring mat, folded up in the corner. Andrew had sunk probably a gallon of blood and sweat into that over the years. In the opposite corner hung the punching bag where he and Renee had learned how to do a proper karate kick, back when they first took a martial arts class in their thirties.

Andrew had never liked the rigid structure of the dojo setting, but Renee thrived in it; she’d taken over from their old sensei over a decade ago now.

The whisper soft sound of Renee’s footfalls alerted him to her return. She wrapped herself in a knee length coat and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’m ready.”

Andrew didn’t reply, just led the way out of the building and to his car. He switched on the self-driving feature and punched in the address for Beans & Bakes, sliding his seat back so he could stretch out his legs.

“How have you been?” Renee asked, dropping into the passenger seat. “I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve seen you.”

“It’s been three weeks.”

“Exactly. _Forever._ ”

Andrew snorted. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

“And you’re getting slow. You never would have skipped a class a few years ago.”

“Glencaster has a fitness centre.”

“Oh yes? And when was the last time you did cardio?”

Andrew shot her a glare. She chuckled. She knew his feelings on cardio. They chatted about inconsequential things while the car weaved through Columbia—well, Renee chatted, while Andrew pretended to ignore her. Eventually, the car peeled out of the sleek lines of traffic, turning into the parking lot of a small bakery-café and slipping into a parking space with hardly a bump.

They climbed out and headed inside. The small room was cozy and retro, decorated in old prints and movie posters from before even Andrew and Renee’s time. Their only concession to Valentine’s Day was the two-for-one cake deal, and even that failed to specify couples.

“The usual?” the girl asked, already tapping their drinks order into the computer. Being a regular came with perks.

“And two chocolate fudge cakes, please,” Renee said.

“Alright, together or separate?”

“You’re buying,” Andrew said, heading straight past to their usual table by the window.  

“Oh Andrew, you really know how to treat a lady,” Renee said, rolling her eyes. Andrew ignored her, sinking into the soft red armchair with a sigh. His back was aching today, worse than usual due to a lousy night’s sleep. He still had trouble adjusting to sleeping in new places.  

A minute later Renee set a tray onto the narrow table in front of him and took her spot in the armchair opposite. Andrew plucked his monstrous hot chocolate off the tray, licking whipped cream and sprinkles off of the top.

“So, how’s your new apartment?” Renee asked. “Roland picked it out for you, yes?”

“It’s a fucking nightmare. The next time I see him I’m going to skin him alive.”

“I’m sure it’s not all that bad,” Renee said. “Today’s decorations aside.”

“He put me in a retirement home. There’s a fucking help button in the shower.”

Renee pursed her lips, studying him. “Well,” she said carefully, “Can you blame him?”

Andrew opened his mouth to snap that _yes_ , he could, but the look on her face killed the words on his tongue. He looked away, scowling.

Renee’s voice was soft and serious at the same time. “Have you ever talked about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Andrew grunted, taking a sip of his hot chocolate.

There was this: five years ago, Andrew walked into the backroom of Eden’s for the manager’s meeting and collapsed like a house had been dropped on him. He didn’t remember anything after that, only the slow, blackening certainty that he wasn’t going to wake up again.

He learned later what had happened. Roland had scraped him off the floor and driven him to the hospital, where the doctors restarted his heart. He was in total cardiac arrest for four and a half minutes, and the doctor told him that unless he quit with the drugs and alcohol and cigarettes, he wouldn’t survive the next one.

“I’m not an invalid,” he muttered. “It’s not going to happen again.”

“Roland worries,” Renee said. “I know you two have never been the type to share emotional confidences, but he cares for you, in his way.”

“I don’t need to be coddled,” Andrew said. “This conversation is over.”

Renee hummed in that way that said she was not satisfied with him, but she didn’t push—directly, anyway. “How is he settling in to New York?”

“He’s insufferably happy,” Andrew replied. “But you’ve seen his feed. He’s posted more selfies this week than most people take in a year.”

Renee’s lip quirked. “He does like his adventures,” she agreed. “How about you? Met anyone new?”

“No,” Andrew said shortly.

“Nobody?”

Andrew thought back to Neil Josten’s sideways smirk and forcibly shut that thought down. “Nobody,” he said.

“I thought perhaps with Roland gone, you might be looking for something a bit more steady.”

“How long have you known me? You should know by now that’s not my way.”

“I disagree. You’re not really the type for one-night stands.”

“The evidence leading up till now suggests you’re wrong.”

Renee smiled faintly. “You’ve certainly had a go at it,” she conceded.

“I’ve done more than have a go at it. What’s with the third degree? I don’t see you getting on Roland’s case for flitting around.”

“Roland enjoys dating and meeting new people. You don’t.”

Andrew folded his arms, sitting back and glaring at her. She smiled back, placid and immovable. “You’re loyal,” she said. “Almost to a fault. It’s always been your greatest strength.”

“Keeping promises and wanting a _relationship_ are not the same thing.”

“Aren’t they?”

“No.”

Renee sipped her tea. “You’re wired for commitment, Andrew. I just think you should consider it. Roland is away, and may be for some time. It seems an ideal time to look for other options.”

Andrew was aware. Single gay men looking for one-night stands were not in as good supply in his sixties as they had been in his twenties; Roland’s frequent absences in the past few years had led to more than one drought in his sex life. Renee might be wrong about the rest of it, but she was right about one thing: meeting new people was a chore.

“How about you?” he said, flippant. “Met anyone _new?_ ”

Renee’s brow creased for only a moment before smoothing out as she cupped her tea in both hands. A brief pang of remorse twinged in Andrew’s chest. Renee’s eyes drifted, staring through the shop window. “I had thirty years with Amelia,” she said softly. “I am not looking for anything new right now, no.”

She refocussed, looking back at Andrew with a smile that was just on the edge of sorrow. “But I would be open to love, if it came my way. Amelia wouldn’t want me to be alone forever.”

Andrew tapped his finger on his mug, giving Renee a moment to collect herself. Reminding her of her wife’s death was maybe a low blow, even for him. Three years had blunted the edge of Renee’s grief, but it wasn’t the kind of wound that ever stopped stinging.

Andrew knew plenty about those.

“Speaking of things that are gay,” Renee said, smiling and forcibly redirecting. “I’m organizing one of the events at the Centre for Pride Month. I was wondering if you’d be open to dropping by and talking to some of the kids. We’ve got a few possible topics to focus on, but we wouldn’t ask you to talk about anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Andrew shrugged. There was no point protesting; he’d done it for the past few years. Renee always asked, though. “Fine,” he said.

Renee’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “Wonderful,” she said. “We’re hoping to try and get some new voices in this year as well, if you know anyone who’d like to contribute.”

“You know everyone I know.”

“True,” she said. “And who knows? Maybe there’ll be someone there this year—”

“Renee,” Andrew growled.

Renee huffed, and finally let it go. They sat in a thin silence for a moment, watching cars stream by on the road outside. Steam from their mugs fogged up the window, the sweet smell of baking wafting through the room.

“Glencaster’s terribly designed,” Andrew said. “Windows everywhere. Zombies would break in within ten minutes.”

“Oh no,” Renee said, a smile quirking her lips.

“It would be a slaughter. Everyone in that place is too old to run.”

“Practically a zombie buffet. Any food stores?”

“All on the first floor. You might be safe on the upper floors, but you’d starve.”

“You’ll need weaponry to get out, then. Anything handy?”

Andrew considered it. “They have a coat of arms at the front with a genuine battle-axe.”

“Perfect,” she said. “Now we just need to make sure no one else gets it first.”

The dregs of his coffee went cold and bitter as a snowstorm blew up outside. Renee brushed her hair back over her shoulder, laughing at something Andrew had said.

Andrew ordered another piece of cake and the drifts piled up outside the window, muffling the world down to the small room and the clatter of cups and spoons. Renee nudged his foot under the table. Andrew glared at her, but he pushed back, just slightly.

They were too old to be annoyed at each other for long. Even if Renee was an insufferable busybody.

Even if Andrew was an insensitive jerk.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! <3<3<3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short one, but the bonding begins with a cute dinner date!
> 
> in which andrew is slightly less repressed, but just as gay. neil is a sassy bastard.

Two weeks after Valentine’s Day, Andrew didn’t think his impression of Glencaster would ever recover.

The obnoxious decorations had—mostly—been removed, but the perky attitude of community-building hadn’t dissipated in the slightest. His one consolation was the bartender, the lone pillar of sanity amidst the staff, but she only worked a couple days a week.

Today was not one of those days. Andrew surveyed the restaurant, resignation weighing on him. He was too damn tired today to cook.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. His beard needed trimming, again.

He dropped into a seat next to the bar and grunted at the bartender in lieu of asking for a menu. He propped one arm on the counter, twisting to scan the room.

Across the room, Neil Josten sat in one of the booths, sipping on a glass of water and studying a menu intently. His salt-and-pepper hair was untidy and flyaway, still thick enough to run fingers through—

Andrew rolled his eyes internally. By his age, he would have thought he’d be done getting stupid over a handsome man. Stupidity, apparently, did not ease with the years.

He didn’t give himself time to overthink. He hauled himself off the barstool, stumping across the carpeted room and dropping into the booth across from Neil. He sighed, leaning back against the leather seat. His back fucking ached, all the time. He needed a new mattress.

Neil raised a single, cool eyebrow. _Fuck_ , Andrew thought, then shoved that part of himself way down deep. “You’re ace, right?” he asked.

Neil blinked, at least a little disoriented by that opener. “Yes,” he said. “Well, close enough.”

“Close enough?”

“Demi, strictly speaking, but it amounts to the same thing most of the time anyway.” Neil shrugged. “Why?”

Andrew resettled himself, stifling a spark of interest in his gut. “My friend is organizing an event for Pride Month. She’s looking for people to do some talks—just small ones, for kids. Figured I’d ask.”

“You want me to…” Neil’s face shuttered, looking away. His hand rose off of the table for an instant, before curling into a loose fist. He dropped it beneath the table, and Andrew had a sneaking feeling that he’d reaching for the scars on his cheek. “No,” he said. “Thank you, but I…”

He shook his head, his mouth curling downwards. “I don’t think I’m the kind of role model you’re looking for.”

“You’re a famous, successful athlete with non-heteronormative partners. How is that not the kind of role model we’re looking for?”

“You skipped the part where I’m the son of an infamous gangster.”

“Forty years ago, sure. But—”

“My answer is no,” Neil said. “I’m sorry.”

Andrew shut his mouth. Neil’s eyes slid away, chewing on the inside of his lip, expression distant. Andrew wanted to push, to figure out what was ruminating under that sharp, ocean blue, but he bit his tongue. Neil’s hand drifted up again to rub at his cheek, and Andrew felt a brief pang of understanding.

“Why are you even living here anyway?” Andrew asked abruptly.

Neil refocussed, tilting his head in question.

“You had a multimillion-dollar career,” Andrew clarified. “You could live anywhere.”

“You know how athletes are,” Neil said, shucking his thoughtful air with the ease of tossing an old coat. Andrew didn’t buy that quick switch for a second. “Blew all my money on booze and hookers.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow and a smile cracked across Neil’s face. “How about you?” he asked, sipping out of his glass.

“My business partner moved away.”

“Business partner,” Neil said skeptically.

“Business-partner-with-benefits.”

“Ah,” Neil said. “And that led you to Glencaster, how?”

Andrew huffed. “We were sharing a place downtown. I didn’t feel like paying the rent after he left, so I moved. Made the mistake of letting him do the apartment searching, though.”

“Ha. My partner Matt was the one that rented this for me. He and his wife are taking a fortieth anniversary trip to Australia.”

“You weren’t invited?”

“Couldn’t leave my cat behind,” Neil said with a shrug. “Dan left me in charge of her foundation while she’s away, though Kevin’s doing most of the day to day running.”

It took Andrew a second to realize that the Kevin that Neil so casually referenced must be Kevin Day. _The_ Kevin Day, possibly the most famous Exy player of all time. It was strange to hear his first name on its own, like hearing someone casually refer to Wayne Gretsky as ‘Wayne’ or Michael Jordan as ‘Mike.’

“Kevin Day is living in Columbia?"

“Yeah, but trust me, he’s better at a distance. I can get you an autograph, if you want one.”

“Fuck, no,” Andrew said. “Exy is an idiotic sport.”

His brain caught up to him a second later and he had a brief instant to be disappointed in himself for giving Neil an excuse to kick him out. He had an even briefer moment to squash that feeling.

Neil snorted. “Says the guy who recognized me on sight.”

Andrew’s disappointment vanished. He scowled. “You’re recognizable.”

“Sure,” Neil said. “And—”

He cut off as a faint buzz reverberated through the table. “Oh, crap,” Neil said, fumbling in his pockets until he managed to dig his phone out of a pocket and answer the call that kept vibrating persistently.

“There he is! Neil! I missed your beautiful face!”

“Hello, Matt,” Neil said, an amused cant to his lips. “Just a sec—”

He tapped the screen and then held it out to the side so that Andrew could see the screen as well. A man and a woman lay side-by-side on reclining deck chairs, floppy brimmed hats pulled down across their dark skin. Sunshine glowed through the small screen.

The man gasped theatrically. “Neil, are you having dinner with someone?”

Neil grinned. “I found an Exy fan.”

“I am _not_ —”

“He remembered me from television. Must’ve watched a lot of Exy coverage—”

“I did not,” Andrew snapped. “I have an eidetic memory.”

“He even asked for Kevin’s autograph!”

The man on the screen—Matt? —laughed. “Aww, that’s so sweet,” he cooed. “You should introduce them.”

“Don’t be mean,” Neil said. “You know I wouldn’t subject him to Kevin without good reason.”

Matt laughed and his wife stole the phone, rolling her eyes towards Andrew. “I apologize for these two idiots,” she said. “I’m Dan.”

Andrew scowled a little more deeply. “Andrew,” he grunted.

“Oh, is that your name?” Neil asked. 

“You didn’t know his name?” Dan said, exasperated. “You are a disaster.”

“He came and sat at my table, Dan. I’m not an expert in these things, but I’d say that makes us at least even on the social misconduct scale.”

Andrew huffed, tucking his chin down against his chest a little. Neil smirked, devilish and totally unfairly handsome.

“Don’t be such a bully, Dan,” Matt said. “Neil is doing his best. It’s not his fault he has the social skills of a cave hermit.”

“I dunno, I’d say he’s more of a swamp rat, don’t you think?” Dan said.

“Hey,” Neil said, mock-offended.

Andrew wasn’t prone to bouts of social discomfort, but he felt horrifically intrusive in that moment. The trio bantered with the ease of years, and it was painfully, achingly obvious that Neil was _loved._ Deeply, and without reservation.

Andrew shunted out of the booth, making to head back to the bar to forget this whole experiment. Renee couldn’t complain that he hadn’t _tried_.

Neil flashed Andrew a sideways smile, freezing him in place. “Alright,” Neil said. “I’m getting hints here that I’m being a bad host. I’ll call you later.”

 “I’ll hold you to that,” Matt warned.

“Love you, Neil,” Dan said, waving her fingers at the camera.

“Talk to you later,” Neil said, and pressed the end call button as Matt blew kisses into the screen. A small smile still hugged his lips as he tucked his phone away and folded his arms on the table, studying Andrew. “So. Eidetic memory, huh?”

Andrew slouched deeper into his seat. “Yes,” he muttered.

“Huh,” Neil said. “I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

“Overrated,” Andrew said. “Be grateful you can forget things.”

The dancing light in Neil’s eyes dimmed, his hands going still. Andrew cursed himself again. And then cursed himself for being annoyed about it.

Neil nodded, quiet. Andrew didn’t really know his whole story; it had come out in the news, but Andrew hadn’t read the articles. He could remember the headlines though, and the photos. Neil Josten, beaten and bloodied, the word _butcher_ sprawled across the page.

Yes, he imagined there were plenty of things Neil would be happy to forget.

“I was going to order dinner,” Neil said, deflecting. “Did you want anything?”

“If you’re buying,” Andrew replied, taking refuge in gruffness.

“Well, we have established that I’m terrible with money,” Neil said, that false lightness in his voice again.

Andrew kind of hated it. It was a mask, camera ready and trained, nothing like effortless smiles he’d given Matt and Dan.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked.

The mask slipped again. Neil blinked, a frown furrowing into well worn lines on his forehead. “It’s fine.”

Andrew watched Neil a second longer and then shook his head, heaving himself up off the seat.

“You can stay,” Neil said.

“Do you mean that?” Andrew asked. “Or are you just saying that because of your PR training?”

“You remember my interviews,” Neil said, his lip quirking up for a brief instant. “Do you really think I would have any problem throwing you out, if I wanted to?”

Andrew hesitated. He’d already asked about Renee’s event. There was no reason for him to stick around any longer.

Except…

He dropped back into the seat. Neil’s expression eased a little. He lifted the menu from where it lay, forgotten, on the table. “What’ll you have?”

Andrew ran through the menu in his mind. It was tempting to order the most expensive thing on it, since Neil was footing the bill, but his doctor would probably have an aneurysm if he found out Andrew was eating lobster soaked in a pound of garlic butter.

“Beef ravioli,” he said.

“Anything to drink?”

“No,” Andrew said shortly.

Neil hummed in assent and flagged down the waiter, ordering a shrimp paella for himself. Andrew drummed his fingers on the table, perplexed. Neil Josten was not known for being personable.

Then again, he was famous for his charity. If Andrew remembered right—and he always did—Neil had donated more over the course of his career than most athletes made, period. Three Olympic cycles, with three podium finishes—one of them gold—and a whole raff of World Cup Championships to his name; he wasn’t quite Kevin Day, but he was up there.

Neil turned back to the table. “So,” he said. “What do you have against Exy?”

Andrew let out a heavy sigh through his nose. “I am not talking about Exy with you.”

“Mm-hm.”

Andrew scowled. Neil just sat there, taking a sip of his water, utterly patient. Andrew sort of despised him.

He huffed again and looked away. “I played in high school. My coach was insufferable. Rode my ass constantly about competitions and scholarships until I finally quit.”

“You were that good?”

“You only get one question,” Andrew retorted. “It’s my turn.”

“Oh, so we’re trading?”

Andrew shrugged.

Neil hummed. “So long as you’re not planning to go public, fine.”

“The gossip magazines wouldn’t be interested in you anymore, even if I wanted to.”

“You’d be surprised. Every time I think they’re finally done with me, someone dredges up some ancient bullshit.” He sighed, rolling his shoulder and leaning back against the seat. “What do you want to know?”

Andrew chewed on his response, staring through Neil’s head at the red leather behind him. What should he ask? If he pushed too hard, Neil might actually kick him to the curb. He wasn’t interested in small talk, though.

“Why didn’t you go to Australia, really?” he said finally.

Neil’s lips pinched slightly and he looked away again. Well, no one had ever accused Andrew of being a fun conversationalist. Except maybe Renee, but she was delusional.

“I spent most of my life on the move,” Neil said slowly. “When I was a kid, we were constantly running from place to place, trying to hide from my father. Then when I went pro, there was always games, and transfers. I never really settled down somewhere until I retired and…I liked it. I liked having some place to come back to.”

He grimaced like he’d eaten something sour. “I can’t enjoy travelling anymore. Too much…” He waved his hand vaguely.

Andrew nodded. Neil fidgeted, picking at his nails. A wariness hid behind his eyes, like he was waiting for Andrew to react.

When it became evident that Andrew wouldn’t say anything more, Neil’s fingers slowed, relaxing. “Besides,” he said. “I wasn’t kidding about the cat. King would never forgive me if I left her for that long.”

“You have a female cat named King?”

“King Fluffkins is her full title.” The smile returned to Neil’s eyes. “Blame Matt.”

A huff of laughter escaped Andrew’s nose before he could stop it. Neil flashed him a quick grin before returning to picking at his nails.

Andrew leaned his head back, not looking at Neil directly. “I’ve lived in Columbia since I was in my twenties.”

Neil looked back at him, waiting, but didn’t prompt him to say any more.

Maybe that was why the words came so easily. “I was in foster care for most of my childhood,” he said. “Once I got settled on my own, there wasn’t much that could make me uproot myself anymore.”

“Three cheers to dysfunctional childhoods,” Neil said, with a wry shake of his head.

“I’ll drink to that,” Andrew muttered, and tipped his glass towards Neil before taking a long pull of cold water. “My turn.”

“I didn’t ask you a question,” Neil pointed out. “You just started sharing.”

Andrew scowled at him. Neil just tilted his head, a cocky smirk on his lips.

“I hate you,” Andrew said.

“I’m told I have that effect on people,” Neil said. “So? Do I get my turn?”

Neil’s smile could have turned mountains into dust. Andrew crossed his arms over his chest, glaring. Neil just sat there, unperturbed.

 _Oh, hell,_ Andrew thought.

_This could be a problem._

“Fine,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the bonding continues and backstory is revealed. King is there.

Andrew was not sure how he went from having dinner with Neil Josten to this.

He crossed his arms over his chest, shivering in the chlorine-soaked air. The pool was pretty empty, though still busier than he’d have expected at seven in the morning.

Neil himself was nowhere in sight. Andrew cursed himself for a fool and dropped onto the bleachers near the changerooms, slinging his towel around the back of his neck. 

By 7:15 he was starting to think Neil had been messing with him. It seemed like something a bored pseudo-celebrity might do to kill time. Trick the random weirdo who invited himself to dinner with you into getting up at ass-o-clock in the morning to go swimming, and then bail.

He had to admit it sounded a little far-fetched, but it was too early for any sort of critical thinking.

Before he could think of any more ridiculous theories, the slap of feet on tile made him look up. Neil had appeared in the exit to the changerooms. His hair was plastered to his head from the shower, and he glanced around quickly before spotting Andrew on the bleachers.

Andrew had to swallow, hard.

He’d seen some of Neil’s scars, obviously, and he knew they continued beneath his clothes. But knowing and seeing were two different things. Neil wore a pair of loose swim trunks and nothing else, a towel slung over one arm.

His chest looked like a battleground. The scars were old and faded, but that didn’t disguise the deliberate cruelty in their design. Slash marks cut his stomach to ribbons and a mark that could only be a bullet hole pierced his collarbone. A mottled burn scar sat on his shoulder, sagging a little from age.

“Sorry I’m late,” Neil said, and Andrew forced his eyes up to meet Neil’s. “Kelsey called—Matt and Dan’s youngest. She’s working on grad school applications right now and needed advice.”

“At seven in the morning,” Andrew said drily.

“Oh, she’s on exchange in France right now. That’s part of the problem, actually, but anyway.” He waved his hand, dropping onto the bench beside Andrew and stretching out his back, completely unselfconscious. “I’m surprised you actually showed up.”

“I said I would.”

“Still.”

Andrew scowled at the floor. Scars or no scars, Neil looked unfairly good for a man pushing sixty. He wished he could feel at least a little off-put by the wrinkles, but his tastes had kept pace with his age; Neil looked rumpled and lean and still absolutely handsome. Andrew looked down at where his own stomach bulged over the hem of his swim shorts and tucked his chin in sullenly.

He caught Neil’s eyes darting towards him, the whites of his eyes flashing for a brief second before he looked away. Andrew’s chest eased, recognition flooding him. Not so confident as he appeared, then.

Andrew loosened his arms from where they were folded. He’d stopped wearing armbands years ago, but he still usually wore long sleeves when he could help it. Neil’s eyes followed the movement as Andrew casually lay his hands on his knees, forearms bare. His scars traced pink lines across the pale skin, writing his history out in blood. Truth for a truth.

Neil looked for a long moment before he nodded. “Ready?”

“No,” Andrew said, but he got to his feet anyway. Neil’s smile chased him across the pool deck to where the lane ropes had been set up. Neil picked the lane that had a sign designating it for mid-speed swimming and dropped his towel on the diving block.

He snapped his goggles over his head and threw Andrew one last grin before pinching his nose and stepping directly out over the water. He dropped into the pool feet first and cool water spattered Andrew’s legs.

He grimaced. Neil sank to the bottom of the pool and kicked his way back up, breaching the surface smoothly.

Andrew scowled and dropped his towel next to Neil’s, sitting on the edge of the pool. He shuddered when water splashed at his shorts.

“It’s easier to just rip the Band-Aid off,” Neil advised.

“I’ve never done anything easy in my life,” Andrew muttered, lowering himself into the pool. He hissed through his teeth as the cold water soaked through his shorts.

He couldn’t believe he was freezing his balls off in a pool at seven in the morning because of Neil fucking Josten. He slipped down the last few inches until he was bobbing at the side of the pool, shoulders scrunched up to his ears to hold in the warmth.

Neil’s eyes crinkled at the corners, but he didn’t laugh. “Ready to swim?” he asked, then squinted at Andrew. “You _can_ swim, right?”

“I am starting to understand why people want to murder you.”

“I’m surprised it took you so long.” Neil flashed another cheeky grin and ducked under the water, kicking off the wall. Andrew watched him glide beneath the water for several seconds before he broke the surface, moving into a smooth front crawl.

Andrew scowled and hung at the side of the pool for another long moment. He _could_ swim. He just rarely _did._

He pushed off the wall and settled into a heads-up breaststroke. Water lapped at his mouth and nose, the acrid chlorine flooding his senses. He watched Neil reach the far end of the pool and make a neat turn, and wondered how Neil would retaliate if he attempted to steal his goggles.

He struggled his way through two laps in the time it took Neil to do twice that. He hung off the diving block, struggling to catch his breath. Maybe Renee had a point about cardio.

“How long do you usually do this?” he asked as Neil caught up, trying to play it off as casual interest.

“An hour and a half, maybe two,” Neil said offhandedly, then snickered when Andrew nearly choked on a wave of water.

Andrew glowered at him, wiping his face resentfully. There was probably snot caught in his beard. Disgusting.

Neil rested his arms on the side of the pool, kicking lazily. “Depends on the day,” he said. “I don’t really stick with a program, I just swim till I don’t feel like it anymore.”

“Huh.”

Neil’s eyes were reflective, shimmering in the uncertain light of the water. “I used to go running every morning,” he said. “My physio finally told me that if I didn’t quit I was going to end up in a wheelchair. Bad knees.”

“Fascinating.”

“Thank you,” Neil said. “Have I distracted you from your suffering long enough, or should I go on?”

“Fuck you.”

Neil laughed and disappeared underwater. Andrew gave himself another couple seconds to wallow before striking out again. He thrashed at the water like it had wronged him, chasing in Neil’s slippery wake.

He kept it up for almost twenty minutes before he flopped onto the pool deck like an ungainly walrus. His breathing rasped in his throat, but he wrestled it under control before Neil could catch up and hear him heaving.

“If that’s your cardio, I’m not surprised you dropped out of Exy,” Neil said, smirking as he grabbed hold of the diving block for support.

“I was a goalkeeper,” Andrew said. He heaved himself fully out of the water with a grunt, sitting on the deck with his feet still floating in the water.

“Yeah?” Neil asked. “What level did you play? High school, or state—”

“Nobody likes a fanatic,” Andrew said. “Spare me your Exy boner.”

Neil, fortunately, laughed. “This is nothing. If you think I’m bad now, you would have hated me in my twenties.”

The cool air raised goosebumps on Andrew’s arms, the dark golden hair there standing on end. His chest still felt tight from exertion, and his skin was sticky with god-knows-what bodily fluids were contaminating the pool.

“I hate you now,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “It wouldn’t make a difference.”

He grabbed his towel and stomped off before he could hear Neil’s reply, his wet feet slapping against the hard tiles. The heels of his feet felt bruised from impact. He dropped onto his ass beside the hot tub and shoved his feet in, glaring at the sign forbidding persons with heart conditions from entering the tub.

It was another twenty-five minutes before Neil joined him, sinking into the water with a long sigh. His hair stuck out in wild directions from being scrubbed with a towel, and his skin was ever so slightly flushed from his workout.

Andrew kicked water into his face.

“I’m not that great at math, but that didn’t seem like two hours,” he, said.

Neil made a face at him, slightly undermined by the uptick of a smile on his lips, and wiped the water out of his eyes. “I’m helping Kevin out with the kids today. I have to be there for nine o’clock.”

Andrew grunted acknowledgement. His feet had gone all pruned and purple in the hot water. He watched their intricate wrinkles through the ripples and reflections of water.

“How about you?” Neil asked. “Any plans?”

Andrew wasn’t about to admit that his plans had been “see if Neil had any plans.”

He shrugged. “Errands.”

Neil hummed. His eyes dropped closed as he lounged, most of his scars hidden under the bubbling surface. His whole body loosened, his muscles relaxing into the hot water. He was, Andrew thought, altogether too comfortable with being around Andrew. People were not like this around him. It was discomfiting. It made his stomach twist with longing. 

“I owe you dinner,” Andrew found himself saying.

Neil cracked open one eye. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

Andrew huffed impatiently. “That was an invitation, idiot.”

A smile tugged at Neil’s mouth. “Well, if you’re going to be an ass about it, then sure.”

Maybe he’d make pasta. Nothing fancy—it wasn’t like he was trying to seduce him. Neil was, for all intents and purposes, uninterested and unavailable.

He kicked at the water and found that the idea felt…oddly calming. There was no dancing around the subject, no lingering question. Just two cynical old men having dinner.

“How’s seven?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Dinner. Seven o’clock.”

“Sure. Where do you want to go?”

“I’ll cook. You can bring your idiot cat over.”

“Sounds good.”

It was just the steam making him feel warm and stupid, he told himself. Just normal heart palpitations from exercise. He’d have to see his cardiotherapist one of these days. Make sure his medications were up to speed for swimming, and all that.

* * *

Andrew smoothed out his black polo shirt, glaring at himself in the mirror. His beard was neatly trimmed and oiled, and his clothes were—as always—understated and dark, but stylish.

His stomach was less so. He untucked his shirt and studied the result in the mirror, but it only made his pot-belly look wider. He tucked the front of his shirt and huffed at his own vanity. It wasn’t like _Neil_ cared.

He shook his head and pushed out of his bedroom. He still had about half an hour to prep the food before Neil arrived and—

There was a rap at the door.

Andrew cursed. Of all the fucking people he could’ve accidentally befriended, why did he have to pick the one who didn’t understand _time_? He surveyed the kitchen, which was currently covered in grocery bags, and gave up.

He swung the door open. “Do you not know how to read a clock?”

Neil didn’t seem remotely bothered by that greeting, which didn’t bode well for his mental stability. A cat with splotchy white, orange and black fur rested in his arms, staring at Andrew with great disdain. Her left ear was partially missing, and her tail was bent where it swished lazily against Neil’s arm. Despite her ragged appearance, her attitude of regality was undeniable.

“I was bored,” Neil said. “Dan said that I should bring over a bottle of wine, but I seem to remember you saying you don’t drink?”

“I don’t,” Andrew said, stepping aside and letting Neil into his apartment.

The cat didn’t squirm, just kept watching Andrew, unblinking. “Is there anywhere you don’t want her to go?” Neil asked.

“I’ll close the bedroom door,” Andrew said. He didn’t need cat hair all over his clothing. He definitely didn’t need Neil to see the mess he’d left on his bed with his indecision over his outfit. Neil, obviously, hadn’t put a moment’s thought into his; he was wearing a logoed orange T-shirt that read, in curly script, _David Wymack Memorial Foundation_ over two crossed Exy racquets.

He cut through the kitchen and yanked his bedroom door closed. “There,” he said, and Neil dropped King onto one of the cushioned bar stools, where she promptly settled down, paws tucked beneath her body, eyes suspicious as she surveyed the room.

Neil glanced around. Andrew swallowed down any lingering sense of self-consciousness and started unpacking his groceries in the kitchen.

Neil sat at the island, on the next stool over from King. “Need any help?”

“You’ll just get in my way,” he said.

“Okay.”

They lapsed into silence. Andrew considered asking how his day had been, but found his tongue was too heavy. Some days words were just more work than usual. At least Neil didn’t look terribly uncomfortable. His eyes drifted to the bookcase as Andrew arranged the chicken and vegetables on the counter.

“Mind if I—?” Neil said, gesturing to the bookcase.

Andrew grunted an affirmative. Neil wandered over and starting picking through the books. He looked over the single personal photo on top of the shelf—one of Andrew and Renee at Pride a few years back, Renee’s arm wrapped around Amelia’s waist and a fierce grin on her lips—then pulled a couple books out, reading the back covers.

“Sci-fi?” Neil asked, flipping through a crumbling old copy of _Ender’s Game_.

Andrew shrugged. “I enjoy it.”

Neil hummed and Andrew focussed on the work in front of him. Cooking was soothing; he liked having his hands busy, making something instead of destroying it, for once. He set a pot to boil for the spaghetti and seasoned the pan for the chicken before getting back to the vegetables.

“I didn’t know you had a twin,” Neil said.

Andrew’s hand slipped, nearly severing his finger. An open book sat in Neil’s hand, his other holding a photograph.

Andrew dropped his knife, crossing the room in three strides. He seized the book and the photo and yanked them out of Neil’s hands. Neil froze, staring at him, hands open and unresisting.

“I don’t,” Andrew said harshly, shoving the photo back into the book and burying it in the back of the bookcase.

He thumped back into the kitchen, grabbing the knife and chopping the vegetables with more force than was strictly necessary.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Neil flinch at the sound of the knife on the board. He slowed, breathing in and out, deliberate and even. “We haven’t spoken since college,” he said, not looking at Neil.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Andrew said, forcing himself to continue chopping, watching the blade sheer through the carrots. It flashed, reflecting the dying sunlight through the window.

He swept the last of the vegetables into the pan and rested his hands against the counter, closing his eyes and inhaling the smell of frying butter. “It’s not a big deal,” he said. “We only knew each other for a few years.”

“You were separated in foster care?”

Andrew let out a brief, bitter laugh. “He never went into foster care. Our mother kept him. Much good it did him.”

“Oh,” Neil said. “That’s…”

“Fucked up,” Andrew said. “I know.”

He inhaled deeply, the air tickling the inside of his nose. “It was my fault he left,” he said. “I was…young. Scared. I was afraid of losing him, so I held on too tight.”

“That’s not fair,” Neil said. “You can’t blame yourself.”

“Can’t I?” Andrew muttered, and immediately hated himself for saying it out loud. He’d barely admitted this shit to Bee. “Forget it.”

Neil hummed noncommittally. Andrew could see him sitting in the corner of the couch, knee vibrating.

Well, fine. If he couldn’t handle Andrew’s shit, then this…whatever-it-was of theirs was never going to work out anyway. Andrew dumped the cutting board into the sink and popped the top off of his slow cooker. A billowing cloud of steam rolled out, the pasta sauce he’d set simmering in there that morning fragrant and still just lightly bubbling.

“Ask me something,” Neil said.

Andrew glanced at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“We’re uneven,” he said. “Ask me something.”

Andrew stilled. Breathe in. Breathe out. Just like Bee taught him.

Neil stood up, crossing the room to stand in front of him. Andrew looked back at his discerning blue eyes, suddenly feeling immensely weary.

“Later,” he muttered.

Neil accepted that, retreating to the island and rubbing his hand through King’s fur. Andrew could hear the powerful vibration of her purr over the hiss and spit of the vegetables in the frying pan.

“How were the kids?” Andrew asked to fill the silence.

Neil’s expression said he knew what Andrew was doing, but he started talking anyway. Andrew listened with half an ear as he puttered around the kitchen, keeping his hands busy so his mind wouldn’t stray.

It had been years since the thought of Aaron felt like a fresh wound; by the time their final year of university had rolled around, they barely spoke at all. It hadn’t been a surprise when Aaron cut him off after graduation. Nicky had been harder to shake. He’d called and called, wheedling and pleading with them to reconcile until Andrew stopped answering. Eventually he’d gotten a new number, and then the calls stopped entirely

The silence then, like now, felt suffocating. Neil filled it with his stories, meaningless talk of children and games and fond jibes towards his coworkers. He had a nice voice. Like ocean waves, rising and falling, soft as sea foam sliding over sand.

Andrew plated up the pasta when it was finished and slid one portion across the island to Neil, settling himself across from him. King’s head popped up, a paw sneaking across the table towards the food.

Neil blocked her gently and she let out a mew of protest. Neil chuckled, scratching her under her chin until she subsided into a quiet sulk.

“This is good,” Neil said, swirling his fork into the spaghetti.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“It’s a compliment,” Neil said. “You’re supposed to say ‘thank you.’”

Andrew gave him a dour look and Neil’s mouth quirked upwards.

He had a good smile, too. His teeth were just slightly crooked, a little gap between the two front ones.

Andrew speared a chunk of chicken as if he hadn’t just been staring at Neil’s mouth like a goddamned teenager. King took that moment to make another attempt on the pasta, and Neil scooped her into his lap, caging her behind his forearm so that she couldn’t reach the plate.

“That new hero movie is in the movie library,” Andrew said.

“ _Tempest?_ I’ve heard it’s supposed to be terrible.”

Andrew gave him a flat look.

“Ah,” Neil said. “Was that meant to be an invitation, too?”

The flat look persisted.

“What do you say, King?” Neil asked, looking down at the cat in his lap. “Would you like to watch a terrible action movie? Yes? We can pick out all the unrealistic bits together.”

“It’s a superhero movie,” Andrew said. “It’s not supposed to be realistic.”

“Killjoy.”

They migrated to the couch, Neil taking one side with King curled up on his lap, Andrew on the other. He called up the directory and the lights dimmed automatically as the movie began with a dramatic action sequence.

Somehow, it wasn’t as engaging as the way the lights flickered over Neil’s profile. Andrew bit the inside of his cheek. Neil’s cheek lit up red, then blue, shadows crossing his face like watercolour paint.

“Pff,” Neil said. “Nobody could survive bleeding out that much.”

“He’s got superpowers, Neil. Suspend your disbelief.”

“Superpowers don’t change the fact that you’ve got a limited quantity of blood in your body.”

“You must be fun at parties.”

“I most definitely am not.”

Andrew huffed a laugh. “Watch the damn movie, idiot.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Neil shot him a grin and King stretched out with a yawn. Andrew shifted on the couch, stretching his sore back. The bleakness that Aaron’s photograph had called up ran out of him, flowing like water.

 _You are an idiot,_ Andrew told himself.

He watched the way Neil’s body curved into the side of the couch, his expression soft and relaxed, and couldn’t convince himself to regret it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry its been foreeever, hope the length of this chapter makes up for it.
> 
> warnings for mentions of rape/child abuse

Andrew wasn’t _avoiding_ telling Renee about Neil. Not exactly. She suspected something, obviously, but she didn’t push.

He just couldn’t stand the idea of her smug face when she found out. Not that she would be outwardly smug—oh no, she was far too well-versed in humility for _smugness_. But he’d know. She wasn’t immune, even if she had the rest of the world fooled.

He scrubbed sweat from his forehead and gave Renee a quick wave as he shoved his way out of the studio. She shot him a smile. Three small children were already tussling across the mats, little fists jabbing at each other. He was gratified to note that Renee’s hair was a little flyaway after their sparring session; she’d put him on the ground at least a dozen times, but he had enough weight on her to at least keep her working for it.

The wind was crisp on his sweaty skin as he stepped outside, flipping his phone out of his pocket. He shot off a quick _what are you doing today?_ to Neil and settled himself into his car. These new electric cars didn’t roar like his old gas ones did, but there was a certain energy to it, a low hum that settled into his bones and sent sparks shivering down his fingertips. He threw it into reverse and cranked up the volume on something low and bass-y that set the whole car reverberating. The noise pounded in his skull as he pulled into the street, erasing all thought.

By the time he swerved into the parking lot at Glencaster, there was still no response from Neil. That wasn’t too unusual—getting in contact with Neil was a game of Russian Roulette at the best of time. He rode the elevator up to his room and took a quick shower. Still no message.

He paused, scrolling back through his message history. The timestamps confirmed his suspicions. He hadn’t heard from Neil in nearly three days.

Probably nothing. He and Renee didn’t exchange messages every day; there was no reason to expect Neil to be _more_ responsive than his best friend.

Still. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and ran a hand back over his wet hair before stumping back out of his apartment.

Neil lived one floor down, at the furthest apartment down the hall. The dark red-oak floors thumped with Andrew’s footsteps as he strode up to the door and knocked twice.

A long silence answered him. No light escaped beneath the door to betray occupancy. Andrew bit the inside of his cheek and raised his hand to hammer on the door again.

It swung open the moment before his knuckles hit, and he swiped awkwardly at open air. He snatched his hand back, scowling. “Did you lose your damn phone?” he demanded.

“Something like that,” Neil said, and Andrew paused to take him in. His hair was lank and flat like it hadn’t been washed in a few days, and he wore a t-shirt and sweatpants that had probably gone just as long. He stepped back to let Andrew in, leaning down to capture King as she made a dash for the door.

Andrew kicked the door shut behind him. Neil stood, his arms full of complaining cat as he led them past a kitchen littered with dirty dishes and takeout containers into a sparsely decorated living room.

He dropped the cat onto the couch and she shot up the back of it, sitting in a flattened indent on one side. She tucked her paws under her body and glared at Andrew like it was his fault her escape attempt had failed. 

“Do you want some water?” he asked. “I think I’ve got some clean glasses—”

“What the fuck is wrong?” Andrew said.

Neil stopped. He rubbed his hands up his bare arms, eyes dodging Andrew’s. The mottled scars on his forearm slid beneath his palms. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Neil sighed. “It’s nothing serious,” he amended.

Andrew folded his arms and glared at Neil. He stared back, eyes heavy and dull. “Neil.”

Neil shook his head and headed for the kitchen anyway. He took two glasses out of the cupboard and poured water from the sink, offering one to Andrew.

Andrew didn’t budge. Neil sighed again and set the glass on the coffee table, dropping onto the couch cushion nearest King. She stretched out, placing one possessive paw on his shoulder. “It’s stupid,” Neil said. “I’m being pathetic.”

“That’s nothing new,” Andrew said, but he eased onto the opposite side of the couch, ceasing his looming. “What you need is therapy.”

“I’ve been to therapy,” Neil retorted. “Obviously, it didn’t work.”

“Therapy doesn’t ‘work,’” Andrew said. “It’s not a magical cure. It’s just supposed to make you better at dealing with shit when it does come around.”

Neil scowled at his water glass. “I know,” he said. His thumb swiped through the condensation on the side of the glass as he wrestled with words. “It’s harder, without them here.”

“Have you called them?”

“It’s not the same.”

Andrew remembered the long years when Renee was away on her Peace Corps missions, the nagging in his stomach that wouldn’t cease even when he had pages of handwritten letters in hand. Renee’s handwriting was atrocious; sometimes it took Andrew hours to decode those letters. His chest had ached with the need to have her next to him again. He’d never said so out loud, but he had picked her up at the airport when she returned and stayed on her couch for three days as she recovered from jet lag.

He understood.

Neil rested his head back against the couch, eyes closed. “I never used to have time to wallow,” he said. “There was always Exy, and after that there was Matt and Dan and the kids. They never let me get too far into my head.”

“Retirement is a bitch.”

Neil huffed a laugh. “It was my birthday on Tuesday.”

“I assume you’re not asking for congratulations.”

“No,” Neil said. King dug her claws into his shoulder, flexing her paws to hold onto him. He unhooked her gently and slid his fingers up into her fur, scratching behind her scarred ears. “It’s not even my real birthday. The feds took the date off my fake ID when they put me into the system.”

Andrew waited. Neil stroked along King’s back for a moment before she swatted at him. He returned to his careful head-scratching and she settled again. “I never thought I’d live past twenty,” Neil said quietly. “My mom was forty-one when she died. For the first seventeen years of my life she was my entire world. Now—” he swallowed. “I’ve been alive longer without her than she lived at all. She was—she went cold by the end. I can see that now, that the things she did to me weren’t okay. But I can’t help but wonder what life would’ve been like if she’d had a chance. She had no one. I just wish…I wish she could’ve known what it’s like. Family, and—and—She never had anyone like Matt and Dan. Nobody ever cared about her like that.”

His voice was hoarse and broken. “Some days I can’t even remember what she looked like.”

Andrew took a deep breath. His lungs felt tight and rough, like he’d smoked too many cigarettes. Neil shuddered, pinching his eyes against whatever memories he was fighting.

“Neil,” Andrew said.

He resisted for a moment, eyes squeezing tighter before he opened them again. The blue was rimmed with red lines like spiderwebs.

Andrew moved slowly, telegraphing his movements so as not to startle Neil. His eyes went wide and then softened, sagging, as Andrew slid his hand around the back of Neil’s neck and tugged him forward until his forehead was pressed against Andrew’s shoulder. Neil made a small, wounded sound, burying his face against Andrew’s shirt and shaking.

His hair was tangled and stringy under Andrew’s fingers. Andrew stared at the wall, rubbing his thumb back and forth across the soft skin of Neil’s neck.

“Sorry,” Neil mumbled.

“Don’t.”

Neil sighed, readjusting his head so he could lean his cheek against Andrew’s collarbone. His voice was soft against Andrew’s chest. “I know you don’t like people touching you.”

Andrew paused, his thumb slowing its mindless stroking. He tried to remember when he’d said that to Neil, and came up blank. His chest squeezed a little. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had paid that close attention to his boundaries.

“I don’t like when strangers touch me,” he said eventually.

Neil’s responding hum reverberated through his entire body. Andrew let his eyes drop closed, Neil’s warmth glowing beside him like a signal fire.

It had to end, of course. After a minute Neil pulled away and Andrew dropped his hand. Neil blinked at him, rubbing the pink, watery corners of his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said.

Andrew grunted in response and leaned back against the couch. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Officially, or in reality?”

Andrew shrugged.

“Sixty-four by my ID,” Neil said. “Sixty-three in actual years. It was easier to be eighteen after mom died. Less people asked questions when I enrolled in school.”

“Because you were so successful at staying off the radar.”

Neil smiled faintly. “Millions of kids play high school sports every year and never draw any attention at all.”

“Just your shit luck, then.”

“Not really. I mean, yes—” He touched his cheek. “—Maybe I could’ve stayed away from my father longer if Kevin hadn’t found me, but the Foxes were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

His brows drew together in consternation. Andrew watched the lines on his face deepen, carving chasms into his forehead. He waited him out.

“Sometimes I just think I should’ve…done more. To deserve it.”

“It’s not like you were completely heartless. Everyone has heard about you and your charities—”

Neil let out a painful, brittle laugh. “Right. ‘Charity.’ That.”

Andrew stopped. A humourless smile pulled on Neil’s mouth like a wire cutting into flesh. “You don’t get out of the mafia for free,” Neil said.

“They arrested your father.”

“You don’t really think the mafia began and ended with my father, do you?”

Andrew took a slow, even breath, counting as he did so. “I guess not,” he said. He sat in silence for a moment, chewing that over. It made sense, unfortunately. Whoever moved into the gap Nathan Wesninski had left would have held Neil’s past over his head and milked it for all it was worth.

The fire faded out of Neil in the silence. His eyes turned to his hands, weary in a way that felt bone-achingly familiar to Andrew. “It seemed like a good trade at the time,” Neil said. “My money for the right to live exactly the life I wanted anyway.”

Andrew waited a beat. “It doesn’t feel like a good trade now?”

Neil's mouth pulled down at the corner. “If I could go back,” he said. “I’d make the same choice, every time. But some days I think about all the lives my money went on to ruin and I can’t help but think that maybe…maybe the world would’ve been better off if I didn’t take the deal.”

The ensuing silence was sticky and leaden. Andrew rubbed his fingers over the worn-out fabric of the couch (white, with tacky orange flowers). King stretched, patting her paw into Neil’s hair and flexing her claws. Neil made a face and ducked out from under her demanding paw, scratching under her chin until an audible purr rose up from her curled form.

Andrew picked his words with care. He knew this minefield too well. “When I was seven years old,” he said, “my foster father came into my room at night and raped me.”

Neil didn’t make a sound, but his eyes zeroed back on Andrew with laser focus. “He wasn’t the last,” Andrew continued. “Or even the worst. It didn’t end until I went to juvie and finally got out of the system.”

He paused. Though he told this story a lot more as an adult than his teenage self ever would have believed, it never truly lost its teeth. A low anger stirred in his stomach as he thought about those years. Even that anger was a victory; for many years, he’d let those injustices slide because he’d believed, somehow, that he’d deserved it.

Neil’s blue eyes waited across the couch, leaving space for Andrew to finish. He brushed off the cobwebs of memory and continued. “I got a degree in criminal law and bought a nightclub,” he said. “The most I ever used that degree for was picking fights when homophobic assholes tried to shut down the club. I could’ve done more.” He shrugged. “Maybe I should have. I don’t know. The only thing I know for sure is that I got out.”

“Sometimes just staying alive is a revolutionary act,” Neil said. It had the air of a mantra to it.

“How wise of you,” Andrew said dryly.

Neil gave him a crooked, wry smile. “Told you I went to therapy.”

“We all have bad days.”

“I know. It’s all bad logic, anyway. My therapist would be ashamed.”

“If they’re ashamed of you, they’re a shit therapist,” Andrew said. Neil huffed, shoulders easing. Andrew took a couple slow breaths, letting the tension roll out of him.

Neil stretched out, his elbows popping. “Damn,” he said. “And here I thought I was finally going to get ahead in our truth game. Guess I still owe you one, then?”

“It’s a stupid game,” Andrew said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He saw the short intake of breath on Neil’s lips, the way his eyes reflected soft surprise at Andrew’s words. He looked away, scowling. Nobody had any right to look at Andrew that way.

He creaked to his feet instead, knees groaning in protest at the awkward, sideways way he’d been sitting. He shuffled into the kitchen and started dumping take-out containers into the recycle, the automated bins whisking away the waste nearly instantaneously. After a moment, Neil joined him, and they worked in comfortable tandem as they cleared the kitchen of the detritus of three days worth of depression meals.

“You need a shower,” he said, wiping down the counter with a cloth.

Neil wrinkled his nose. “Now you sound like Matt.”

“You reek.”

“I know,” Neil said. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, probably ripping out some of the tangled threads as he went. He sighed. “Fine. I’m going.”

He turned towards the bathroom—seemingly unbothered by Andrew’s continued presence in his apartment—and Andrew almost let him go before a thought occurred to him.

“Neil.”

Neil stopped, looking back at him from the doorway. The light from the bathroom shone around him in a messy, artificial halo.

“Is that why you don’t want to come to Pride?”

A divot appeared on Neil’s cheek as he chewed on it. “I sold out,” he said. “I’m not a good role model.”

“Tell that to the kids at Foundation,” Andrew said, nodding towards the wall. A series of photos hung there. The groups were different, but one thing remained constant; Neil Josten and a woman he recognized as Dan Wilds, age slowly encroaching on their features, standing proudly in the top left-hand corner behind a crowd of children in Exy uniforms.

Neil’s eyes followed Andrew’s, a slight smile on his lips. “I guess I did get one thing right,” he said.

“More than one,” Andrew said. “Come to the Centre with me,” he said, holding up a hand to preclude argument. “Not for Pride. I go there a couple times a week just to sit in with the kids. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to.”

“Andrew, I don’t know—”

“If someone like me can handle it, so can you.”

Neil stared at him for a long moment, his fathomless eyes hidden in the shadow. Andrew couldn’t even begin to guess at what thoughts hid behind the lines on his forehead.

He was about to offer to let Neil sleep on it when he spoke. “Alright,” Neil said. “But not for free.”

Andrew scowled without menace. “What do you want?”

“I’ll go to the Centre with you, if you come to the Foundation with me.”

“Ugh,” Andrew said.

“It’s just Exy,” he said. “It’s fun.”

Andrew glared at him, but he already knew he would go. He’d have gone with Neil for free, if he’d asked. “Fine,” he said. “But don’t expect me to play nice.”

A smile cracked across Neil’s face like sunshine over a battlefield. “Never,” Neil said.

Andrew dug his fingers into his palm to stop himself from saying anything stupid and made a shooing gesture towards the bathroom. “Get on with it.”

Neil smirked at him, turning on his heels with an expression that almost had Andrew following him into the bathroom. “I’ll text you the time,” Neil said. “Kevin’s got a big group coming in from DC next week.”

“I look forward to it,” Andrew said, keeping his tone dead flat and pretending like his stomach didn’t leap when the bathroom door closed on Neil’s laugh.

The apartment was soft and still around him without Neil in it. He stumped to the windows and yanked them open, letting a misty breeze clear out the last of the funk. He inhaled the fresh air, resting his forehead against the cool glass. His chest felt warm and full despite the heavy conversation.

King meowed plaintively at him, glaring across the room from her perch on the couch.

“What do you want?” he snapped, and stumped across the room and out the door.

* * *

Neil didn’t waste any time. The next Tuesday Andrew skipped their usual swim to preserve energy and met Neil by the car at quarter to nine. Neil’s hair was still damp and messy from the shower and Andrew caught the faint scent of chlorine wafting off of him whenever he moved.

Andrew pointed him into the passenger’s seat of his car. There was no way he was getting into Neil’s old piece of junk car. The thing was bright orange, of all colours. He couldn’t be seen in that.

“It’s not that bad,” Neil said, though the ginger way he levered himself into his seat seemed to imply that he knew how expensive Andrew’s car was. “It’s a classic.”

“Old is not synonymous with classic,” Andrew said. “That thing should not even be on the road.”

“You’re just prejudiced against orange.”

“It’s hideous.”

Neil leaned his elbow against the window, mouth quirking up at the corner. Andrew was immediately grateful he’d put the car into self-drive so that he could appreciate that expression. “Orange was the colour of my college Exy team.”

“Sentimentality won’t change your bad taste.”

“I’m just trying to prepare you for the Foundation,” Neil said. “It was an offshoot from the Foxes. We keep to a theme.”

Andrew grunted his disdain. The city slid by on either side of them, but it still felt private, enclosed on all sides by the car.

“It’s for underprivileged kids,” Neil went on, resting his head against his hand. “But we don’t really have a hard and fast definition of what that means. Usually we don’t really ask. If a kid applies, that’s good enough.”

“You must get a lot of freeloaders.”

Neil shrugged. “Some, probably. But it’s worth it to get to the kids that need it. You can’t always tell from a background check. Wymack always knew. He’d look into a kid’s eyes, and just know.”

“Is that how he found you?”

“I was squatting in my high school’s changerooms,” Neil said. “It didn’t take a genius to tell there was something up with me.”

Neil fell into silence, a little furrow in his brow. Andrew bit his tongue. The _memorial_ in David Wymack Memorial Foundation hadn’t escaped his notice. From the bits and pieces he’d gathered from Neil’s stories, Wymack had been to Neil what Bee had been to Andrew. A lifeline.

He tucked his chin in and watched the road ahead of him. “So what do we have to do?”

“I mostly just come and play, honestly. There’s enough managers and staff now to run the rest of the program without us, but it’s kind of fun for the kids to play with me and Kevin.”

Andrew grunted his acknowledgement. A couple minutes later they rolled up next to a large facility with a stylized orange fox logo painted bright and bold across the sliding glass doors. The distinctive domed roof of an indoor sports stadium rose up behind the entryway. Neil directed him into staff parking.

Andrew itched for a cigarette. Not that he was _nervous_. That would be ridiculous. Renee had a point, though; he was a creature of habit. Change drove him back to old patterns.

The urge faded as they walked through the sliding doors into a wide entry hall.

“You weren’t kidding about the colour scheme,” Andrew said, looking around. It was almost enough to hurt his eyes. You couldn’t look anywhere without being bombarded with orange.

“I never kid about interior design,” Neil said and waved at the lady behind the front desk. “Hey, Mags.”

“The DC school group arrived ten minutes ago,” she informed him without looking up. “Kimmy’s getting them kitted up now.”

“Thanks,” Neil said. “Do you have the visitor pass I asked for?”

“In your mailbox,” she said, tapping away at her computer, ignoring the both of them. Andrew liked her.

Neil shot Andrew a knowing look, as if to say _she’s always like this_. There was fondness in his eyes, though. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five; Andrew wondered if she’d been an alumnus of the program herself.

They went around the back of the desk, where Neil fetched a small magnetic tag from his cubbyhole. He tossed it to Andrew. “I’ve already sorted out some gear for you,” he said. “It’ll probably fit. It’s lucky that you’re not much bigger than our usual clients.”

Andrew gave Neil a flat look, which made him grin a little. He waved Andrew into a staff changeroom, where a tall, greying man was fixing some light armour over top of his orange t-shirt. Andrew stuck the visitor tag onto his collar.

“Neil,” the man said. “You’re late.”

“By two minutes,” Neil said, unperturbed. “Andrew, this is Kevin. Kevin, Andrew.”

Andrew nodded, not extending his hand. Kevin cast a discerning gaze over him. The iconic chess piece on his cheekbone was slightly mottled by age, but had clearly seen the needle of an experienced re-toucher, because the lines were still crisp.

“Neil said you were a goalie,” Kevin said.

“When I was sixteen,” he said.

Kevin huffed, a slight softening of his rigid posture. “The kids will love that.”

“Which grade is up first?” Neil asked.

“Sixth.’

“Excellent,” Neil said. “Sixth graders are always assholes. You’ll fit right in.”

That last was angled towards Andrew. He gave Neil another flat look.

“Your gear is over there,” Kevin said. “It’s adjustable, you should be able to make it fit.”

Andrew nodded and went to pick through the pile of orange gear. Even with his eidetic memory to draw on, several of the pieces were unfamiliar; the standard equipment must’ve taken a few upgrades over the years.

Neil had already started strapping on his own armour, a much lighter version of the heavy goalie gear. “Give me a second,” he said. “I’ll help you with the pads.”

“I can figure it out,” Andrew muttered. The vivid image of Neil’s hands slipping along his body, fastening straps and readjusting his clothes danced behind his eyes. He exhaled it out, pawing through the pile of equipment until he got his bearings. He peeled his shirt off and began fastening the under-armour on first.

Neil hovered, waiting until he’d nearly finished before stepping in to tighten the last of his straps with light fingers. He was quick and impersonal, which was both a relief and a disappointment. Andrew spotted Kevin watching them with suspicious eyes.

He turned his gaze away the second he noticed Andrew watching him back. “Neil,” he said. “Go check if Kim needs help.”

Neil rolled his eyes. “Yes, your Majesty,” he said, and ducked out of the room.

Andrew grabbed the hefty goalie racquet leaning against the wall beside him and Kevin led him down the hall after Neil. It opened into a wide stadium. A couple rows of seats lined the near side, but the space was dominated by the Exy court itself. It was encased completely in plexiglass. Pretty nice, Andrew could admit. His facility in juvie had made do with regular walls on three sides, with one wall of plexiglass to allow spectators. Exy ceilings weren’t terribly low, but when they were surrounded by solid cement it could be claustrophobic. The plexiglass ceiling let in light from the high stadium ceiling while still being low enough for an enterprising ricochet.

“What are your intentions with Neil,” Kevin said stiffly.

Andrew had to blink rapidly, his brain still caught in his analysis of the court. Kevin stood rigid as a nutcracker, jaw set in discomfort.

“What are my…” Andrew said. “Are you trying to shovel-talk me?”

“I just meant—” Kevin glowered down at him. “I don’t like how fast you’ve gotten into his life.”

“It’s not like he has money for me to leach off of anyway,” Andrew said dryly. “I’m not a gold-digger.”

“I never said you were.”

“No, you were just being a jackass about it.”

Kevin’s hand tightened on his racquet, face stony. Andrew took a steadying breath, glaring at the floor in front of him. “We’re…friends,” he forced out. “It’s not like that. And even if it was, Neil can take care of himself.”

“He can,” Kevin said. “That doesn’t mean he should always have to.”

The floor around the outside edge of the court was rubber, painted white lines indicating a warm-up track. Andrew bit the inside of his cheek. “Yes,” he admitted. “That’s true.”

Neil appeared out of the opposite side of the stadium, putting an end to this abysmal conversation.  Kevin appeared relieved; Andrew was glad he wasn’t the only one. He didn’t look at Kevin again as he stepped through the open court door in his sneakers.

A crowd of middle-schoolers spilled out the entrance behind Neil, their chatter rising into the enclosed space and echoing around him. Andrew stumped across to the half-court line, meeting Neil and a stocky, black-haired woman wearing the trademark orange uniform.

Kim nodded at Andrew in greeting before turning back to the group. “Alright, kiddos—”

“We’re not ‘kiddos,’” a petulant-looking girl said. “We’re in high school.”

“Junior high,” Kim corrected. “And on this court, you’re all my kiddos.”

She got a few grumbles for that. Andrew cast his eye over the children. They were a motley bunch, some clumped tightly together like prey animals seeking safety, others stiff and alone, or spinning their racquets to try and make a big show of nonchalance. He would have bet his car that over half of them had never even held a racquet before.

“Alright, so you guys met Kevin yesterday,” she said. “Today we’ve got two special guests. This is Neil Josten, former starting striker for the US National team, three-time Olympic medalist, and graduate of Palmetto State University. And this is Andrew, who hasn’t played Exy since before any of you were born.”

“Why is he here then?” a boy demanded.

“I think it has something to do with humiliation,” Andrew replied. A couple kids snorted in amusement.

“You look like orange Santa,” another kid said.

Andrew scowled at her. “Not everyone with a beard is Santa.”

Kim stifled a grin. “Andrew, do you want to share anything with the group? About you, or Exy?”

Andrew gave Kim a dour look. He had anticipated this, however. “Not much to share. Grew up in foster care. Got arrested for breaking and entering when I was thirteen. Learned Exy in juvie. The end.”

Several kids startled at that. He did a quick mental calculation. Sixth graders would mostly be eleven or twelve; not far off how old he’d been when he’d gotten arrested. They seemed terribly small.

Kim didn’t bat an eye. “Which position did you play?”

“Goalkeeper.”

“Why?” a boy asked.

“The warden didn’t trust me on the court swinging a stick at people.”

“So, what? Exy _saved_ your life?” another boy said derisively.

“My therapist saved my life,” Andrew said. “Exy was just a game.”

The boy looked taken aback by that answer. Andrew hazarded a guess that he’d expected them to be peddling the notion that Exy would change their lives. The boy chewed on his cheek, eyes narrowed in thought. Andrew shrugged at him. He wasn’t going to lie.

“I don’t know why I thought any friend of yours would be less of a pain in the ass than you are,” Kim said to Neil, aside. A few kids’ eyes blew wide open at hearing an adult swear openly.

“Don’t exaggerate, Kim,” Neil said. “He’s not nearly as much of a pain as I am. Okay.” He rubbed his gloved hands together and cast his gaze out across the group. “I’m Neil, I played professional Exy for seventeen years, and my life sounds like it comes from some B-list mafia movie. And if you don’t believe me, you can Google it.”

The kids blinked at that, not sure how to respond. Kim didn’t give them a chance to figure it out. “We’re going to split into two teams and practice some skills,” she said. “Kevin and I will take everyone in white uniforms down to that end, and Neil and Andrew will take everyone in orange that way. Let’s go!”

Andrew trailed after Neil towards the goal. A flood of children followed them, chattering loudly. “Alright, everyone,” Neil said. “We’re going to play a little game to warm up.”

“Is this like one of Kevin’s games?” a girl said suspiciously.

“Kevin’s games suck,” Neil said. “We’re going to play a real game.”

He detailed a simple set of rules for a condensed, half-court version of an Exy match. No running with the ball, no more than three seconds possession, and no contact. “Everyone got it?” Neil asked. “Take a good look at your jersey number. We’re going to start with evens versus odds, but keep an ear out, because I’m going to be switching it up as we go. Andrew’s in goal, first one to score on him gets candy.”

Andrew shot Neil another sour look as he fielded a couple questions from the kids. _No, you can’t fight over the ball. No, hitting someone with a racquet counts as contact. Yes, my father was a gangster, now put your phone away if you don’t want it to get broken._

The goal wall stretched behind Andrew as he took his position. It felt impossibly huge and wide in a way it never had when he was a teenager. He rolled his neck, cracking it side to side.

Neil’s eyes met his in a silent inquiry. He nodded curtly in return.

“Three—two—one—” Neil blasted on his whistle and chaos broke loose. The kids scattered, the shyer ones retreating out of the way while the few with experience dove in to show off. The ball hit more sticks and jerseys than nets as it bounced and rolled between the players.

A taller boy snagged the ball and flung it towards Andrew triumphantly. He lurched sideways, cursing the heavy armour constricting his movements. He managed to get his racquet in the way, bouncing the ball back towards the group.

A thin trickle of frustration ran through him. The clumsiness of his block grated up against memories of his high school talent. He brushed the feeling aside. This was a game for kids.

“Freeze!” Neil shouted. About half the kids did as instructed, but the girl who’d snagged the ball after the shot on goal couldn’t stop her swing in time. Neil must’ve anticipated it though, because his racquet was already in the air, scooping the ball out of its arc. “New teams. Jersey numbers fifty and lower versus fifty-one and higher. Three—two—one—”

The whistle squawked again. The teams weren’t quite matched in numbers this time, but it took longer for the ball to come Andrew’s way. A tiny girl wearing an orange jersey that looked like a dress on her stood to the side, wringing her skinny hands around the grip of her racquet. It was almost as tall as she was.

Neil flitted among the players seamlessly. At first, his movements appeared random, but after a few minutes Andrew started to see a pattern. He didn’t steal the ball, or really play in any other way, but he was always there to scoop the ball up and deposit it into a racquet after it had been dropped, or separate a dispute before it could begin. Several times he blew the whistle, reorganizing the teams.

“Everyone with a _nine_ on their jersey, versus everyone without a nine. Three—”

“What if it’s a ninety-one?”

“Then you’re with the nines! Three—two—one.”

Andrew managed to deflect the few shots that came his way, mostly thanks to the fact that his opponents were inexperienced children. The teams this time were even more numerically uneven, but Andrew had to marvel at the uncanny way Neil had split them. He’d managed to isolate the more skilled players, preventing them from hogging the ball between them.

He slammed another ball away from the goal wall. His arms were already burning from holding the heavy racquet at the ready. He blew sweat out of his eyes and glanced up at the clock on the wall. It had been less than ten minutes.

“Last chance!” Neil called. “Everyone versus me.”

The children screamed protests and laughter as Neil stole the ball off the ground. He launched it at the wall, ducking through the throng to catch his own ricochet. In seconds the kids were dog-piling onto him, no-contact rules be damned. Neil laughed, a huge, toothy grin splitting his face, and shot the ball against the wall as he went down under the tide of middle-schoolers.

The ball soared off the wall and landed perfectly in the racquet of the little girl who’d been standing to the side. Her eyes shot open in shock. She held the stick out from her body like she wasn’t sure what it was.

“Take the shot!” another girl shouted.

The little girl—number twenty-two—jumped, startled, and swung her racquet as hard as she could at the goal wall.

Andrew saw the ball sail towards the left side of the goal and spun his racquet, but he swung too high. The ball dropped below his outstretched racquet, hitting the wall six inches off the ground with a slight _pock_.

The kids exploded in cheers, and two other girls grabbed number twenty-two in celebratory hugs. Her wide, shell-shocked eyes brightened to glowing. 

“Hey, Santa!” one of her friends called. “Where’s her candy?”

A couple kids giggled. Andrew glared at them. Once upon a time, his gaze had been enough to reduce kids like this to dust. Now, they only laughed harder.

“Yeah, Andrew,” Neil said, disentangling himself from the scrum. “Where’s her candy?”

Andrew scowled, propping himself up against his racquet. “Why do you assume I have any?” he groused.

“Don’t you?” Neil said innocently.

He was going to kill Neil for this. The kids tittered as he and Neil locked gazes for a long moment. One of Neil’s eyebrows arched in challenge.

Andrew sighed noisily and broke eye contact, shoving his hand in his pocket. He tossed a brightly wrapped candy towards number twenty-two without looking at her. Neil grinned in triumph.

“Alright everyone,” Neil said, turning back to the group. “We’re going to practice some drills now, and then you’ll get another shot at Andrew at the end of practice. I’m going to split you into five groups…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrew is the Grouchy Candy Grandpa i don't make the rules okay

**Author's Note:**

> for other aftg-related nonsense, follow me on my [tumblr](https://writingpuddle.tumblr.com/)


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